


ten years! two hearts! one home! (the nick and schmidt ‘five times’ fic)

by cecilia095



Category: New Girl
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Canon, Bisexual Male Character, Honestly Husbands, M/M, Post-Canon, Roommates, convince me otherwise, post 2x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24712396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilia095/pseuds/cecilia095
Summary: "We're not 'adorable', Jess. We're grown men who happen to enjoy each other's company. And penises."
Relationships: Nick Miller/Schmidt (New Girl)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 316





	ten years! two hearts! one home! (the nick and schmidt ‘five times’ fic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> … or ‘Five Times Nick and Schmidt realized all they really needed were each other’. Written for [svftlou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/svftlou/pseuds/svftlou) after they left a comment on one of my more recent fics about wanting to see a longer, more romantic Nick/Schmidt fic. 10K+ words was an impossible feat this time, but I still hope this is suitable to what you wanted to see from me!
> 
> Honestly, this was quite the challenge for me, seeing as although Nick and Schmidt are my two favorites from the gang to write, I’ve never written them romantically before. This starts off pretty canon and then veers away from it, because, well… how could it not?
> 
> I love five times fic, and despite this being challenging for me to write, I really did enjoy writing this! If you read and like it, please let me know. (I'm self-conscious about this pairing and my ability to write them believably, okay?)
> 
> Also, the part about Schmidt blasting Sia's 'Chandelier' is a callback to one of my [favorite Max Greenfield interviews](https://www.vulture.com/2015/05/new-girls-max-greenfield-on-being-too-schmidt-y.html), so I can't take credit for that!

_1\. AFTER THE PIGEON_

It all starts with a damn pigeon. 

“Of course she rejected you, ‘ya clown,” Nick tells him. “Pigeons are creepy. I would know. I had a pet pigeon in the fourth grade, and I hated him more than my squirrel, Reggie.”

Schmidt lets a sigh so dramatic — yeah, dramatic even for Schmidt, so that’ll tell you — and snaps his fingers to let his friend know it’s time for another melon ball shot. He’s up to seven, and he’s feeling, as their roommate Jessica Day would put it, _twirly_.

And rejected. 

It’s not supposed to be like this. It doesn’t make sense. Cece was supposed to find the pigeon romantic and endearing, they were supposed to make wild love on the couch in her apartment, make a biracial child while they were at it… Instead, he’s _here_ , at Nick’s stupid bar, hating his life and racking up an invisible tab (Nick never charges him a cent; even if he always threatens to), his stomach filled with melon ball shots and misery.

“Look, I don’t think I’m your guy,” Nick says honestly, sliding a full shot glass to Schmidt’s spot on the far right of the bar. Schmidt cringes when liquid spills from the overfilled glass. Stickiness is his least favorite part about coming to this place, but the free alcohol makes up for it. 

“Of course you’re not ‘my guy’,” Schmidt slurs, nursing the shot like an infant would a bottle. Nick points out that he’s supposed to take it all in one swig, and Schmidt tells him to shut up and ‘melon ball me’, and Nick warns him to never call it that again.

“You’re, you’re not my type,” Schmidt continues, slamming the shot glass a little too eagerly onto the counter of the bar. It’s three in the afternoon and there’s like, two other patrons in here.

“W’do you _mean_ I’m ‘not your type’? I’m everyone’s type! Look at me.” Nick levels a hand to himself and watches Schmidt scrunch his nose. “I meant, I just don’t think I’m the guy to bitch to here, Schmidt. I’m not — I wouldn’t have sucked your dick if you brought a pigeon into my apartment either, man.”

“You wouldn’t have found my efforts sexy?”

“I’m not commenting about that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re drunk off of something that’s safe for most _pregnant women_ , and my shift’s over in ten. You wanna whine about Cece, go do it on Facebook like you normally do, Schmidty.”

“I-I got locked out of Facebook, Nicholas. Exceeded my limit for rant-y statuses for the day. ”

“I’m not surprised.”

Schmidt stands up, albeit wobbly as all hell, but he stands. “I think - I think I know what’s got your buffalo plaid underwear in a bunch, Nick, and I —”

“The fact that you know what kind of _underwear_ I have on right now kinda freaks me out, but you _do_ lay out my clothes most mornings, so.”

“I think you don’t agree with me about Cece. You don’t think we belong together, you never have.”

Nick’s absentmindedly, half-ass wiping down some glass he’s already cleaned twice. He drapes the dirty rag in his hands over his shoulder, ignoring the way it soaks his flannel, ignoring Schmidt’s stupid comment. Honestly, he's given Schmidt enough damn Cece Input over the last two years. He's kind of bored of it now, especially since they keep taking all of his advice and fucking it up.

“I think,” Schmidt leans in closer to the bar, using both of his hands to steady himself against the wood bar top. The guy’s probably the biggest lightweight Nick’s ever met, and they live with _Jess_ who gets drunk off of two sips of pink wine and turns into a very foreign version of herself. “I think you don’t think I belong with Cece because you think I should be with someone else.”

Nick gulps at that, but only because his friend might not be wrong. They’ve talked about it before — twice, maybe three times after college; long nights spent together in the living room of the loft, when they both realized that the only company they truly needed was the company of one another. It’s corny, it’s ridiculous, and Nick’s been burned one too many times in the dating world to get fucked over by his best friend. He won’t let it happen, even if he’s curious what might happen if it _did_.

“You’re makin’ no sense.”

“Oh, but I’m making _the most_ sense, Nicholas,” Schmidt assures him. “It makes complete sense. I’m thinking perfectly rationally. You said it yourself; melon ball shots aren’t even real alcohol.”

“Yeah, they’re pathetic. They’d allow ‘em on the refreshment table at AA. What’s your point?”

Schmidt wordlessly bites the inside of his check, and Nick wishes he’d stop looking at him like that so he can take a minute (or ten) to get his shit together. They’ve never… admitted it like this before. Nick let Schmidt go on desperately chasing Cece even though he could see from a mile away it’d never work out the way Schmidt tried to force it to, and he himself dates a few random, good-looking bar patrons who never feel exactly right underneath him. They do the trick, and he tells them all the same thing; he’s not looking for anything serious, and for the most part, they never are either.

“A-Are we getting out of here?”

“ _I’m_ getting out of here," Nick clarifies. "Big Bob takes over in five. You want more alcohol, you deal with him. He pours a mean melon ball, but not as good as ol' Nicky's."

“Nick, c’mon. Don’t push me away,” Schmidt pleas, and Nick feels his eyes follow him as he wiggles out from behind the bar. “You’re acting how you acted that time I invited you to my disco-themed birthday party, and I don’t like it at all!”

“That party was _terrible_. The only thing that saved it was when Winston and I showed up with that keg, and you know it.”

“Nicholas.”

He watches Schmidt silently beg for Nick to join him on the other side of the bar, and it takes him a few seconds before he gives in. He unties his apron and sloppily rolls it in a ball, tossing it onto the counter behind him, not caring that it doesn’t land perfectly on top. Big Bob or someone else’ll put it away later, or never. Whatever. He doesn’t care.

When he rounds the corner to where Schmidt’s standing, he just says, “What.”

“I think, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Well, don’t do it here, man. My shift’s over, I don’t feel like staying to clean it up.”

“I’m not — I’m not _naive_ ,” Schmidt starts.

Nick interrupts him to say, “Oh, but you are. Remember that time in college you had a pen pal?”

“Oh, Denise!” He claps his hands together, memories of he and Denise’s extensive loose leaf letter exchanges suddenly coming back to him. He told her everything, and then some. He starts to think about what ever happened to her.

“I’m Denise," Nick says flatly. "Your mom paid me a hundred bucks a month to write to you. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad time, and as a broke college kid I appreciated the extra income for my weed habit.”

If Schmidt were a little more sober, he’d probably start crying. Instead, he just says, “The handwriting looked _eerily_ familiar”, and then he moves on. 

“Nick... what do you want to do about it?”

“Do about _what_?” Nick asks, even though he has an idea of what ‘it’ is that Schmidt’s referring to. 

“Us.”

Schmidt says it so confidently, but that’s just because he’s _Schmidt_. He says everything with confidence, and then some, even if half of the time he's faking it.

The drive back to the loft is silent. If Nick’s seeing things right, Schmidt’s passed out in the passenger seat, a combination of the seven shots and Nick’s even-slower-than-usual driving lulling him to sleep. 

When Nick pulls into his usual parking spot outside, he waits a minute after shutting off the engine before he wiggles Schmidt by the shoulder. Yep, he's out cold. "Schmidt, Schmidt, _Schmidty_."

"Uh-huh." Schmidt sits up almost too eagerly, backing down just as quickly when he realizes everything is spinning and seven shots on a Wednesday afternoon is not his style for a reason. He blinks fiercely a few times and then realizes he's in a parked car and calms down. "Did I do anything stupid?"

Nick unbuckles himself, and then leans over to press down on Schmidt's seat buckle. It's not a big deal, doing these little things for his best friend when he's too toasted to do them himself, but he still won't be bragging about the little gesture to his roommates, or anything. Let them think he's a cold-hearted dick, whatever. "Which time?"

"Um. Back at the bar. I — If you're not ready to be called out about it, then I won't. I'm sorry I said anything. Melon ball shots and rejection make me extra sensitive."

Nick does nothing for a second, but then he lets his hand wiggle over to Schmidt's knee. He squeezes his kneecap gentler than he means to, and tells him that it's fine. "I get it. You thought you and Cece would end up together, and it sucks that you figured out you probably won't. Next time, maybe find Winston and cope with him. Puzzles are more your thing, man."

"That's not what I was sensitive about," he says matter-of-factly.

"Let's talk about this later. Or never. I've, I've got... taxes."

"Taxes? You never have taxes! You haven't filed since 2002. I checked."

"You _checked_?"

"I was concerned about your financial well-being."

"Well there's no need to be, Schmidt!"

"Your pay stubs say otherwise, Nick."

"Look, I just... talking about stuff like _this_ , with _you_ , it freaks me out, okay?"

Schmidt licks his lips, and Nick's expecting another sarcastic remark, to be called out for being a coward, to be the next subject of Schmidt's Facebook rants when he's allowed back on. Instead, he just nods and says, "I know it does."

"...That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"For now," Schmidt says. "Hey, can I sleep in your room tonight? The window is much draftier and I'm already sweating from the alcohol. My insides burn, Nick."

"It's only like, four o'clock. You'll be okay by bedtime, Schmidty." 

Schmidt just lets out an exasperated sigh that says he's about to get his way.

Nick's never done this before, but he leans his elbow on Schmidt's armrest and gives him a quick peck on the mouth — a kiss so quick he has to pull back and blink after he does it to make sure it actually happened.

It would shock him even more if it was something he never thought about, but... Okay, Nick's thought about Schmidt's mouth, on his mouth, a total of eleven times. At first, he hated not knowing why. Now, he just had to do something about it.

"Is that a yes?" is all Schmidt asks when it's over.

"Uh, yeah, that's... you can sleep in my room tonight, fine."

—

_2\. ME, YOU, AND A WEDDING (A.K.A. ‘THE ONE WHERE CECE DOES GET MARRIED') _

She does it. She marries Shivrang, she doesn’t even give Schmidt the option for a plus one, she’s shocked as hell when he doesn’t get up during the ceremony and ask if he can speak now so he can forever screw up her peace.

Schmidt wears his second best tux (the first, he’s saving for… well… something that’s not his ex-girlfriend’s wedding, basically) and Nick needs to borrow one from Schmidt’s closet or else it’s jeans and a scrapped-out white tee for him, and Schmidt won't let him show up that way even if he argues that the invitation didn't specify one dress code or another.

Mid-ceremony, Schmidt sees Nick’s collar is out of place and without thinking, reaches a hand to his right and shimmies it straight. The corner of Nick's lips curve gently at the gesture, his cheeks turning the faintest bit of pink, but his eyes don't leave the front of the room. Schmidt doesn’t notice Jess’s curious eyes on him, on _them_ , but soon all of their attention is on Cece and Shivrang, who are on their fourth circle around the ceremonial fire, and no one brings it up. 

Until the sixth circle.

“Hey,” Jess whispers, nudging Schmidt in the bicep. “What was that?”

“Not now, Jessica,” he hisses, swatting her arm away from his space. “I’m waiting for Shivrang to trip over his own dumb, stupid feet.”

“You promised you wouldn’t bash him today!”

“Oh, did I? I don’t remember.”

“I just — You know that I’m a very observant person, Schmidt.”

“Not observant enough. I hinted — many times — that the hairstyle you’re sporting today did _not_ work with your sari, and yet here you are, still wearing it. And I absolutely hate it."

She hits him in the bicep again. “I see the way you look at Nick,” she says earnestly, and he glares at her. They’re kind of… busy here, at her best friend’s wedding ceremony, and yet she wants to have this conversation, right now, with him. Typical Jessica Day.

“I’ll have you know, the only _look_ you saw from me was an eye roll. His beard hair is just a little too untamed for my liking. This is a very formal event, Jessica.”

Jess looks around like she needs confirmation that this is, indeed, a wedding, ripping her attention away from Schmidt to shoot an overzealous smile in her best friend’s direction. She watches Cece’s head shake nervously as she takes a shaky breath. Throwing in the towel and marrying Shivrang has undoubtedly been one of the harder things Cece has done.

“If you’re into Nick, I don’t care, Schmidt. I mean I care, of course I care, I just.” She pauses to think about how to word her next sentence. “I didn’t know there was something between you when Nick and I kissed during True American, but it - it was just a kiss, it was just a _game_.”

Schmidt thinks back to that night a few months ago, about the fact that it wasn’t even a big deal to anyone at the time. Except her. He’d noticed the way his roommate’s eyes suddenly lingered on Nick’s for a second longer than she meant for them to, the way she adorably set out a plate for his waffles despite him being the grumpiest person known to man in the mornings. It might’ve just been a quick kiss on a dare during a game, and Nick never showed it to be more, but Jess… Basically, Jess might’ve, at one point, had the hots for Nick, and Schmidt has to figure out whether or not that bothers him.

"I care about you both, and if you make each other happy, then that's important to me," she continues.

She's a good friend, Schmidt knows, but he's just not ready to flaunt whatever this is between he and Nick. Especially not to the Queen of Flaunt, herself. He settles with a quiet, "Okay, thanks Jess."

Nick looks at Schmidt and asks him what all of the damn whispering is about. 

“Shivrang’s shoes,” Schmidt lies. “We're trying to decide if they work with the rest of the outfit. I'm veering on the side of 'hell no', and Jess thinks they're fine. What do _you_ think?”

That shuts Nick up. He throws his hands up in defeat. “I dunno, Schmidty. Leave me out of it. I’m trying to count how many beers I could’ve downed in the time this stupid circle walk is takin’.”

***

“Congratulations, Cece.”

He watches her bite the inside of her cheek at his sentiment. She just bows her head and says, “Thank you for coming, Schmidt”, and then she finds her new husband’s hand and links their fingers together. Part of it looks uneasy for her, but Schmidt shakes off that thought as quickly as it came.

Cece looks beautiful, there’s no denying that, but for the first time in his adult life, Schmidt isn’t throwing a hissy fit at the fact that he didn’t get his way. He finally accepts that if he was meant to have her, he would’ve already. It’s not supposed to take people that long to get their crap together, and Cece deserves everything she wants, everything he can't give her. 

Schmidt feels his cheeks burn when Nick walks up to him from behind, his palm resting on the flat of his back for what feels like a long minute. It’s really only two, three seconds before Nick breaks contact and lifts up a glass of what Schmidt thinks is whiskey to him. 

“I need like… four of these. How about you?”

“Maybe ten,” Schmidt jokes, knowing his stomach and his liver can handle one, maybe two whiskeys at most. “I can’t believe she's actually _married_.”

Nick blinks. “I can. We did kind of spend three hours watching Cece and Shivrang walk in circles, man. Lots of time to process.”

“I’m strangely okay with it,” Schmidt admits, but Nick calls bullshit and doesn’t believe him. Who could? Schmidt owns three journals filled with all things Cece; vulgar fan fiction, drawings of their future biracial child, vivid descriptions of their previous sexual role play. “Fine, I’m not _okay_ with it, but I will be eventually. I can’t give Cece what she wants anyway. Not really.”

Nick lifts his whiskey glass to his lips, taking a long sip before asking, “And why’s that?”

"Oh, so we can finally talk about it now?"

Nick knows exactly what Schmidt's referring to, and Schmidt can confirm that by Nick's nervous gulp, the way the glass of whiskey is now unsteady in his hand.

"I guess. Just... not here, okay? Let's find somewhere else."

"Okay," Schmidt agrees easily. "Also, Jess knows."

Nick immediately stops in his tracks and glares at Schmidt. "Jess knows. Jess knows _what_?" Wordlessly, his eyes look right at Schmidt, and Schmidt nods in confirmation. " _How_?"

"She's skillfully observant, Nicholas. That's how." Nick's still glaring at him. "Fine. She saw me fix your collar during the ceremony."

"You do that shit for me all the time, Schmidt! You do it for everyone. I saw you fix the buckle on Winston's belt the other day, and no one's accusing you of wanting in his pants despite how crazily close to his dick you were."

True. Any out-of-place clothing item is number seventeen on his Pet Peeve List.

"Look, I think — I think Jess might've wanted you too at some point, and I don't know if you want her back, but if you do, I'll just find another beautifully unachievable Indian woman in this place to go pine over and leave this... whatever this is... alone."

Nick takes another swig of whiskey, not that he needs to be intoxicated to tell Schmidt what he needs to tell him, but it just... alcohol makes it a little easier, okay? "I don't," he starts, shaking his head manically, and then slowing down to read the room, to note that only he and Schmidt are at this small hors d'oeuvre table in the back corner. "I don't want Jess, and she doesn't want me. She thought she did, for like, _two days_ , but then she realized she wanted someone with a checking account and the ability to sit through an entire season of '24' with her, and that's just... not me."

"The ticking clock gives me _severe_ anxiety," Schmidt says with a shudder.

"Exactly." 

Nick sets his glass down onto the table, next to a tray of half-eaten samosas, and looks around them again before he palms his hand over Schmidt's. He's not exactly the affectionate, assuring one of the duo, but he's trying to be better — even if he's freaking out that someone'll see, and then he'll let go super fast and say that he was sneaking Schmidt his eighth samosa underneath the table if they do.

"I uh, I don't, I don't need Jess when I have you, I guess is what I'm trying to say."

***

For a venue this expensive, this bathroom is dimly lit, smells like a cocktail of urine and cheap booze, and the stall barely has enough room for one of them let alone two.

Talking about feelings may be Schmidt's forte, but they're at his ex-girlfriend's wedding, both two drinks in, both needing each other's company somewhere other than on the dance floor with a clumsy, tipsy Jess or Winston. Both who are, indeed, going _in_ on the Electric Slide, right now, they can confirm.

Schmidt surprisingly makes the first move, feeling Nick's hardening cock through the fabric of the tux Schmidt lent him this morning, and he hesitates before Nick gives him the wordless OK to reach into his waistband. For someone who's had a decent amount of sex, Schmidt looks as scared as a college virgin who's waiting to get permission from his nervous girlfriend. Schmidt's sat on the hard toilet seat, and Nick's hovering above him, the air surrounding them getting hotter and hotter as they inch in closer together.

"C'mon, what are you waiting for, it's not like we're exactly alone in here," Nick presses impatiently. After a few seconds, he reaches beneath his own waistband, sliding his dress pants down far enough to let Schmidt take his length between his hands, watching his wrists shake as he nervously grips onto his cock. He gives him a pass when he realizes it's probably his first time with a guy, too.

"It looks like," Schmidt starts, gesturing to the walls that are making him _highly_ claustrophobic, more than usual, "we're pretty alone in here, Nick."

"I hear a dude throwing up three stalls down."

"That's just Cece's drunk uncle Avish. He's been going since _noon_. I'm surprised it took him this long."

"Let's not talk about Cece's weird, drunk uncle right now, Schmidt."

Schmidt agrees, finally getting brave enough to lean up and take Nick's tip in between his lips, tasting him almost feverishly. It's not a thought either of them have ever had out loud before, but this is something they've both wanted for a longer time than they can admit.

"Yeah. Let's not."

—

_3._ _REVERSE REJECTION (AND IT FEELS SO GOOD)_

It's been a hot minute since Cece's been in the loft, and this comfortably, Schmidt notes. He watches her slam the fridge with a little more force than he'd like it to be slammed in — stainless steel isn't _unbreakable steel_ ; it's still a vulnerable metal —, taking the orange juice out with her left hand. Her left hand with no visible wedding ring. Jess probably made her take it off so she could try it on herself for the morning. That Jessica Day, always practicing for the real thing eons before she'll actually have it. 

"H-Hi," Schmidt greets, cursing himself for letting his voice sound so nervous. She's married, he watched it happen, and he's not supposed to care about it this much. Not anymore. Not when he has...

He clears his throat and tries again. "Morning, Cecelia. What happened to drinking the orange juice at your own residence? I assume Shivrang buys the one with _pulp_ , but you'll get used to it."

"I kind of... moved out," she says simply, setting the bottle down on the counter top and swiveling around to face him.

"Y-You, you _what_?"

"Yeah," she doesn't even look sad, or frustrated, or anything remotely close to it, "we just... it didn't work out."

Two-and-a-half months of marriage, and it just 'doesn't work out'. Schmidt thinks about her poor Uncle Pardeep who spent a fortune on their wedding and says a silent prayer for his bank account. Then he says, "I'm sorry, Ceec" in a low, sincere voice, and she says that it's fine, and she sounds like she means it.

"I actually, uh," she pauses, stepping away from the counter to inch a few steps closer to him. "I thought about you a lot after the wedding."

"Ahhh, one of my favorite opening lines from some of the greater pornos I've watched." He waves a hand at her. "Please, continue."

"Schmidt, I'm serious! I, I know I chose Shivrang, I know I said I wanted all of those things, but it wasn't him I wanted them from."

"I don't know what you want from me, Cece."

"I don't know either, Schmidt. I'm sorry. First I tell you that I don't want you, now I _do_ —"

He blinks. "You, you _want me_?"

Cece, who's never scared of anything, only manages a small, "Y-Yeah."

If this were six months ago, Schmidt would blast Sia's _Chandelier_ and dance around the living room like a fool. Cece wants him? Great! She can have every part of him, and more, and then some. Instead, he just shakes his head almost apologetically, because he really is sad to have to reject her. Six months ago, Cece was everything he'd ever wanted, and Nick was just... y'know... a _thought_. 

It's not like they tell anyone what's going on between them. Fine, maybe Jess knows, but she's also trying to be a better friend and not pry in their business like she normally would; she goes about her business as normal, and Nick and Schmidt are still the two best guy friends she's ever had.

It's not like they sit at the kitchen table and say, 'Yeah, that blowjob last night was _just_ what I needed, thanks man!', and it's not like Nick hands Schmidt a brown paper bag with a turkey sandwich before work, finishing the gesture off with a kiss. 

They're just friends who sort of realize that if they're together, things feel... better, and it doesn't feel that awful when they express that in other ways, either. They still have their own rooms, they still have their own lives, and that's the way it is.

"I'm uh, I'm seeing someone," he admits. The words sound weird when they roll off his tongue. Not _bad_ , just weird.

"Oh." There's a little bit of disappointment in her eyes, but then she looks right at him and asks, "Wait, so it _is_ happening, huh?"

"What, the rumor going around Ass-Strat that I'm sleeping with Kim? I would _never_. I have this strange feeling one kiss from her would put me in a coma. She writes a lot of concerning texts about poisoning me, you know."

"Not _Kim_ ," she says, "Nick."

Schmidt's voice immediately gets caught in his throat, and it stays there for what feels like a long time. He doesn't even know what to start saying back to that.

"I've - I've always had this weird feeling that you guys were more than friends, but then my Uncle Avish said he heard you two in the same stall in the bathroom at my wedding, and I just... I get it. Nick's been there for you _way_ more than I have; way longer than I have."

"You're not mad?" is all he can muster up the courage to ask her. He might not want to be with her anymore, but he still cares about her with this fierceness he can't exactly describe. 

"How could I be? You're allowed to love who you love, even if it's not me."

"I did love you once, Cece, but you threw me and the pigeon out. Hey, where is he anyway? Is he okay?"

She laughs like she can't believe he's serious; like he's really worried about a pigeon's whereabouts right now instead of everything else they just talked about.

"You try putting a pigeon in a gift box and tell me _you_ don't get attached, Cece."

"He's fine. I... let him fly out the window," she explains. "Schmidt, you guys don't need to hide it from us, you know."

***

"Hey, look, if you uh, if Cece is what you want, man —"

Schmidt accepts the beer Nick slides down the bar, fingering the top gently before looking up at Nick.

"You heard?"

"Most of it," Nick tells him. "I was on a Winston-level of snoopy today."

"I get it. I felt like that on Tuesday. Do you know Jess is dating a _doctor_? She's not exactly a quiet phone-talker."

Nick scrunches his nose when he thinks about how many of Jess's phone conversations he legitimately feels like he's a part of, and that's not including the ones she invites him to sit in on. "No, she's definitely not."

Schmidt takes a sip of his beer, then sets it down gently. Nick's paying attention to another set of customers now.

Four gin and tonics later, Nick drapes his bar rag over his shoulder and wipes a hand over his sweaty forehead. Schmidt likes him like this; the hustle, the tending to cheap, cranky, demanding drunks with more attention than they deserve.

"A Winston-Level Snoop requires _dedication_. You're too lazy."

"W'do you mean? I told you, I heard Cece tell you she wants you, Schmidt. It's fine. You wanted her too at one point, remember? Should I pull out the 'Cece Box' in your closet as a reminder, or —"

"You didn't hear my answer," Schmidt interrupts, then pauses to take another sip of beer while he thinks of what to say next. 

It takes a few seconds, but Nick's lazy, not a moron. He catches on quick. "Wait, so now _she_ knows, too?"

"I didn't include the details!" Schmidt defends.

"What's next? Should I email my mom about it?"

"Ohhh, Bonnie. You should. I miss her."

"Yeah, well I don't miss her novel-sized, judgmental emails, so that's a big fat 'no'."

Nick pops the top off of a beer for himself, and Schmidt, ever a stickler for the rules, doesn't comment about how he's not supposed to be drinking behind the bar. "Cheers," Nick says, clinking their glasses together. He's not much of a talker, of a sap, but Schmidt knows it's his unique way of saying 'thanks for choosing me and not Cece before'.

In this very moment, Schmidt knows this is exactly where he wants to be.

—

_4\. BED-SHARING_

"I like what we have."

Nick cocks a brow at him from his spot at the dining room table, lifting his head up from the crossword puzzle he was only half paying attention to, anyway.

"What? I do. I mean, you won't let me make it Facebook official and you made me delete a Tweet that only _referenced_ you, but I do."

"Okay. Me too, Schmidty." Nick diverts his attention back to the crossword.

"Mooooorninggggg!" Jess sings, ignoring Schmidt's comment about how she's only this happy because she's screwing a doctor.

"Just because he's a doctor doesn't mean the sex is guaranteed to be good," she explains, "but... _it is_. Sickeningly good. Get it, _sick_ , because he's a doctor?”

Nick grunts at the annoying way she wiggles her eyebrows at that, and then adds, "Hey, I'll fuck him too, for the health insurance and the financial security!", with finger-guns and all.

"Sam is _mine_. Hey, you can have financial security too." Nick catches the way Jess tilts her head at Schmidt, who removed himself from this conversation the second Jess stepped into the dining room. "I'm just saying! He's not Sam Sweeney cute, but he cleans up nice."

"Oh, we're talking about _me_?" Schmidt queries. 

"Duh. I know you don't want me to tell... _Winston_ ," she whispers his name like that'll help the words said before it suddenly vanish, "but I like the idea of you two! Schmidt, you're legitimately insane, and Nick, you're the grumpiest person I've ever met, but it _works_."

"Yeah, I'm grumpy as fuck. Thanks."

"Insane?! You're more than insane, Jessica Day, you're - you're deranged!"

"See?!" She giggles, hoisting her flower-patterned schoolbag over her shoulder as she makes her way to the counter and reaches for a waffle. Schmidt beat her to breakfast this morning. "A-d-o-r-a-b-l-e."

"You don't have to spell it, and we're not 'adorable', Jess. We're grown men who happen to enjoy each other's company. And penises."

"Nicholas!"

"And _that's_ my cue to go. I'm meeting Sam for a little... school parking lot car sex before work. Wish me luck!"

With that, she's gone, Winston's fast asleep, and it's just the two of them again.

Nick rolls his eyes. "I don't know why someone would need well wishes to screw in a parked car, but whatever, what's — what're you doin' today?"

"What I do every day: Sell my soul to a company that belittles me, underpays me, and seriously disregards my talents. You?"

"Drinking for free," Nick says with a smirk. "Hey, see ya later," he adds when Schmidt gets up to clear his plate in the sink.

"Okay. See you later."

***

It's later, and somehow a Thursday night turned into an acceptable night to play a game of True American at the loft.

Sam's here, and so is Cece, and so is one of Winston's friends from the police academy. Her name is Aly, and she points out that everyone in this room is almost or over thirty, and they're making a crown out of a beer box.

Winston levels a hand at her and explains, "Yeah, that's kind of only for the winner, which you _won't be_ , so..." 

"Oh, it is _so on_ Bishop!"

They opt out twenty minutes in, and everyone's taking bets whether or not Winston tried to kiss her goodnight at the door as he walked her out.

Jess and Sam have to kiss behind the iron curtain, and Cece yells, " _KISS_ , not third base! Get back out here, you horny weirdos.", probably in a desperate plea so it's not just her and Nick and Schmidt out in the living room. 

"Nick..."

Nick turns to the voice behind him, drunkenly puttering over to where Schmidt is plopped down on a pile of pillows. 

"Hey, you good?"

"I'm good. Better than good. I'm _grrreat_."

"Is that your 'Tony the Tiger'? We're _that_ drunk right now?"

"N-Not that drunk," Schmidt stutters, his head bobbing up and down.

"You look like you're about to puke on those pillows, which if I'm rememberin' correctly, are _yours_ , and cost more than my — I'm trying to remember the insult you used. Car? Was it car? Look, a lot of things cost more than my car, Schmidty. You're gonna have to come up with something better."

Schmidt agrees. "Fine, I'll come up with something better next time, can we just — can we go to bed?"

Nick crouches down to Schmidt's level, careful to keep his feet in the safe zone. He's not trying to get disqualified this far into the game, and he can feel Jess's eyes on him just waiting for him to mess up so she can call him out. He and Jess are weirdly competitive when it comes to games like these, and he's not letting her win. "You're givin' up?"

"I think so. Cece's already wearing the crown, and I'm spent. I _do_ have work in the morning, you know."

Nick brushes off the unspoken 'unlike some' in his tone, and just reaches out his hand to yank Schmidt up. 

"Hey! You! Miller! Disqualified!" Jess shouts, and then Cece screeches in victory. "Woo! Cece's the True American! Nick, you would've beat her if you just stayed put in the Candy Cane Forest."

"I still don't know why we went with a Christmas theme, Jess. It's _April_ ," Nick points out. Jess is too busy chanting about how Nick _sucks_ at this game.

"'Night, everyone," he announces, waving to no one, because Cece's too enamored with her crown, and Jess and Sam are sloppily making out in the middle of what _was_ the Nutcracker Mountain.

Schmidt's only a step behind him, tipsily wobbling on unsteady legs as he follows a surprisingly more-sober-than-the-rest Nick into his bedroom. With puffed out cheeks, Nick huffs and turns on the light, but only to make sure his bed is decent enough to let Schmidt sleep there. They never do this, sleep in each other's beds, but he decides Schmidt's too drunk to make it to his own room in one piece tonight, and he _might_ not hate the company for a little while. Whatever.

"Hey, Schmidty, c'mere." Nick wraps an arm around his elbow and eases him onto the bed, watching Schmidt's drunken state temporarily lessen as he wrinkles his nose in disgust at something. "What is it?"

"Unmade beds terrify me," he admits, but plops down onto it anyway. "Do we need to hire a housekeeper, Nicholas? I'm worried about the neglect of this bedroom."

He grunts in annoyance. "Shut up, Schmidt. You said you were tired, so go to sleep."

Schmidt obliges, laying down onto the pillow, lazily wrapping half of his body up in Nick's comforter. Nick won't point out that he's still got his work pants on, because he doesn't need to induce that freak out right now. "Mmm, you're right. Hey Nick?"

"What?"

"Where are _you_ going to sleep?"

"Um. I think Cece crashed in your room, so, probably the couch."

"Why?"

"Because I like stiff leather and three-day neck pain, Schmidt."

"Nicholas."

"I just — we don't do this, man. We don't sleep in the same bed. If we did, that'd just... y'know... make it real, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that right now, okay?"

Schmidt sits up a bit, furrowing a brow at Nick. Despite feeling a tinge of disappointment, he just says, "Okay", because he's not going to make that mistake again; he's not going to force someone to be with him in the way he wants them to.

Schmidt lays back down, and Nick, for some reason, still finds himself on the edge of his own bed.

"I can scoot," he says in a whisper.

Nick shakes his head, almost forgetting that there's a 5'10" body curled up in his sheets. "What?"

"I don't think you like the idea of sleeping on the couch, so I'll scoot. Ask Cece; I'm a generous bed-sharer."

"I'm good on askin' Cece, but yeah, I know. Remember our camping trip back in '08?"

The corner of Schmidt's lips curl. "Yeah. You're so untalented at making fires."

"Oh, and you're just the Sole Survivor, huh? Lemme call Jeff Probst and let him know we've got our next season's winner here."

"I wouldn't win, but my social skills are off the charts," he argues. "I place fourth, maybe fifth if I'm feeling humble. Hey Nick?"

"What."

"Just sleep in the goddamn bed!"

—

_5\. YEAH, FINE, WE'RE A THING_

The last time they were on this beach, Nick had cancer. Well, okay, he never had cancer, but his three idiot roommates convinced him the pain in his back from a friendly game of football was deadly. Then, he had a panic attack, raced into the ice cold ocean, and fell asleep on the sand next to Jess. 

Schmidt points out that the last time they were here, as concerned as he was about his best friend dying, he was equally concerned about the imprint Cece's ass would make in the sand when she got up. 

"And _now_ the three of us are gonna fall asleep and you and Nick'll go back to the truck and have your own fun while we freeze on the beach."

Jess and Winston laugh in agreement, and Schmidt just says that falling asleep in a car that's not moving has been a scenario in one of his lengthier recurring nightmares since 2005.

"She never said anything about _sleeping_ ," Jess retorts. 

"Hey, where's your little doctor friend, Jessica?" Nick changes the subject.

"He's working. At the hospital. Where he _saves lives_." She sticks her tongue out at Nick when she says that last part, and he argues that bartenders have saved just as many lives as Doctor Sam.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, do you have the s'mores?"

Jess lifts an obnoxiously over sized duffel bag into view, twirling it effortlessly between two of her fingers despite it looking like it could hold a first-grader inside.

"And a 1000-piece puzzle, that _seemed_ like a good idea when Winston mentioned bringing it until I realized we're on... sand," Jess says, and Winston just lifts both of his hands up in defeat.

Two s'mores each later, Cece and Jess curl up together underneath a stack of throw blankets they borrowed from Schmidt's collection, and Winston falls asleep in a mesh beach chair, snoring before the girls even get comfy on the sand.

"W-Wanna take a walk?" Nick proposes, and Schmidt just silently nods and follows him over to the water.

"So..."

"So."

"Remember when you jumped in there," Schmidt nods, gesturing over to the freezing cold California ocean. Nick shudders at the memory. "I think I would've turned aging ballerina, child chess prodigy, professional magician crazy if you really were sick, you know."

"I think you would've been fine," Nick retorts.

"Nuh-uh. Remember how we agreed you're the glue?"

He vaguely remembers. Something about how Schmidt and Jess and Winston don't work on their own, not without Nick to hold them all together.

"I like to see myself as the cool, pot uncle of the group, but yeah, I guess."

Schmidt steps closer to Nick. It's been a day or two since they've been together the way they have been, and it's stupid, but he misses being around him when he's not. Just like this. He can feel Nick's breath hot on his shoulder, and when he looks down at his hands he's picturing them sliding into the waistband of his work pants after a long day, and a lot of damn things have changed since the last time they were on this beach.

After what feels like an hour of pure silence, Nick says in a quiet voice, "Y-You can tell people. If you wanna."

That snaps Schmidt out of his own head. "What?" he asks, trying not to seem as taken aback as he is.

"I mean, we're not, it's not like we've exactly stopped... y'know..."

"Yeah, we haven't. I would know, as a participant," he says cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows.

"C'mon. Don't ruin it, Schmidt."

"Can I tweet about it?"

"Like, once every seventy tweets."

" _That_ spaced out, huh?"

Nick's hands are in his pockets, and he laughs through his warning. "Don't push it."

"Look, uh." Schmidt scratches the side of his face, then takes his other hand up and runs it through his hair, ignoring how sticky and sandy it feels from the sea water. His friends might all be beach people, but he prefers a poolside afternoon with the option to go back inside into the air conditioning. "Whatever this is, even if we don't, you know, call it anything, it's... You're still the best friend I've ever had, Nick."

Nick bites the inside of his cheek at that; they really have been through more together in their twelve years of friendship than most people he knows.

"You're uh, you're the best friend I've ever had too, Schmidty."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to svftlou who left me the comment that prompted this in the first place! I would've never attempted Nick/Schmidt fic without it. ;)


End file.
